


I'm In It

by hawkywithshawzy



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Tumblr Prompts, mini crisis, snuggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 18:09:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7518088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkywithshawzy/pseuds/hawkywithshawzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick can get pretty insecure, and Jonny knows exactly what to say.</p><p>Every single time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm In It

“This isn’t working.”

Patrick had said it over and over to himself in the bathroom mirror. It seemed harmless then, his own pale facing staring back at him. Looking into his own blue eyes, cringing when his eyes glanced over his horrible hairline. After a few hundred times, he figured it wouldn’t be that hard to say to Jonny when he came home from Winnipeg.

Boy, was he wrong.

Jonny couldn’t even get his shoes off in the doorway. He was in the middle of shaking the heavy Chicago snow out of his gray beanie when Patrick blurted out those three words from the hallway, causing Jonny to snap his head up, his eyebrows furrowed, a true look of surprise. Patrick was expecting anger, but instead, he got a: “Uh, what?”

“This isn’t working, Jon. Like, what are we doing? You took pity on me that one night, and that was it, for you, probably. What do you want from this, dude? Anything? Because I look kinda stupid over here, ya know,” Patrick said, voice failing him at the end, cracking high and vulnerable. Damnit.

It was after his Grandpa died, and Patrick was just constantly sad. At practice, at lift, at dinner, during games even. Hockey was the one thing that could take him away from anything he wanted, and even the game he loved was betraying him. It was no longer the game that he loved, it was the game his Grandpa loved, and it just wasn’t the same. 

Jonny locked eyes with him that one night, two weeks after the reporters surrounded him in his stall, pestering him with enough questions to write a book with. He was expecting a beer, maybe a Cake Boss marathon while sitting on Jonny’s couch, falling asleep one episode in. Instead, Jonny wrapped his arms around Patrick’s small frame as soon as he was in the door, his hands soothing up and down his back while his tears dampened his game day suit. Patrick didn’t pull away, and he didn’t feel compelled to, but when he lifted his head up off Jonny’s chest to gather himself, Jonny’s lips had found his, and nothing ever felt so right in that moment, even if it was laced with sobs and salty tears.

That was a month ago, and now Patrick, no matter how many times he tried to stop himself, has found himself sleeping surrounded by Jonny more often than not, tears wetting the sheets. He couldn’t help it; he’s never felt more safe than in Jonny’s arms, swallowed by his large sweatpants and old Winnipeg Jets t-shirts.   
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Jonny demanded, pulling him back to the present. Which he may have royally fucked up.

We’ll see.

“You know exactly what it means!” he shouted, suddenly fueled by anger and fear. “You’re just doing this because I’m Patrick, your best friend, who happens to be going through a tough time. What happens when that tough time is over? When I go back to normal? What then?” he asks, tearing his eyes away from Jonny to look at his shaking hands below.

Jonny could’ve passed for a fox, because without a single noise, he was standing in front of Patrick within two strides, gathering him into his arms despite Patrick’s attempts to wriggle free.

“Stop, Pat, stop,” he said, placing his chin on top of Patrick’s blonde curls. Whenever Patrick was having a really bad night, worse than the just bad nights, Jonny would pull him into his chest and run a strong, gentle hand through his curls, pulling the ringlets out and twisting them up again. Patrick was usually asleep five minutes into it, his hot breaths consistent on Jonny’s body.

“I don’t want you to just, leave me,” Patrick whispers, barley audible against the old UND Hockey sweatshirt Jonny was wearing from the plane. Jonny must’ve heard him, though, because he strengthened his grip around Patrick’s shoulders.

“I will knock you on your ass, Patrick Kane, if you ever think like that,” Jonny said, grabbing Patrick’s chin, bringing it away from the soft fabric to look him in the eye. “You wanna know why I’m in this, then?” he asked, firm. All Patrick could do was nod his head.

“I’m in it for the Sunday mornings when you get up at the ass crack of dawn just to make me chocolate chip pancakes and bacon, my favorite meal. I’m in it for the late night drives to the rink just to fuck around and see who can shoot more from the opposite blue line. I’m in it for the look on your face and the pride I get in my chest when I see you score a goal. I’m in it because you love strawberry smoothies only, and that you’re too damn stubborn to try anything else. I’m in it because you do my laundry when I forget to, and you always blast music in the shower, and because you never fail to bring out the best in me. I’m in it for the numbers 19 and 88 hanging together one day from the ceiling from the United Center, asshat. I’m in it because I love you,” he said, breathless against Patrick’s warm body. 

Patrick had nothing to say, searching Jonny’s eyes, trying to say sorry without actually saying it. But Jonny knows him better than anyone he’s ever known, and he knows he feels terrible. Instead of showing it, he breaks into a small smile, and says: “Can you say that again?”

It’s Jonny’s turn to smile, the crinkles next to his eyes alive as he says, “I love you, Patrick.”   
“I love you too, Jonny,” Patrick says, snuggling in closer.

“I know you do.”


End file.
